The Locker Room
by conchepcion
Summary: Sherlock returns from the dead and pops in on Molly. Inspired by the new trailer for series three. A belated birthday gift to Nocturnias.


**A/N: **We're all going to end up doing this, here's my take on it (the locker room). It's more or less **PWP**. I'm dedicating this to Nocturnias, since her _very _belated birthday one shot is still under works.

* * *

She rubbed at her eyes while opening up the locker. Molly briefly saw her peaky reflection in the mirror, only to find herself stopping the second her eyes went downwards. She hurriedly looked up gasping; soon taking in mouthfuls of air in shock, as she practically trembled.

There he was.

It was like all the oxygen had been drained from the room, for breathing was difficult, and she could only clench tightly to the locker door. Molly finally managed to slowly slide it closed, aware that he stood behind her, before she twirled around slowly, "Sherlock?" she said quietly.

"Molly," he said.

He looked different, she couldn't pin-point it, whatever it was – it hung about him, like his belstaff-coat with its propped-up collar, and she only pressed her lips together uncertainly feeling pale as death.

"You're – you're – back, then?"

He furrowed his brows slightly amused, "Obviously."

They were back, to the very beginning, before all of the mess – Christmas presents, apologies, Jim from IT, and her having – she shook her head slightly, fixing a smile on her face that did not reach her eyes. She could feel the stinging in her eyes, the tears welling up, "So – you've probably spoken to everyone, then?"

He tilted his head slightly, looking thoughtful, taking one step forward, "No."

"Oh, right – _well_ – John?"

"No."

She blinked stupidly, feeling her cheeks grow warm, the nerves wracking through her body, "Am I – I'm not -," she faltered a bit, sighing at her own silliness, though he didn't seem impatient. Sherlock just stood there silently looking at her with those blue eyes of his, "Am I the first one you've returned to?"

He gave it some thought, a peculiar look on his face, "Yes," like he'd almost not quite considered this fact himself.

"Oh, well, that's nice. I suppose you want to hear what I've told the others, then?"

"No," he said seeming surprised by his own declaration, though not taking it back, as he also took another step forward.

"Right…ok – well – I'm about to change."

He looked around the changing room, blue eyes flickering everywhere, before landing precisely upon her again, "Yes, this is the room for change isn't it?"

_What?_

Sherlock took an additional step forward, such a broad one that he was stood hovering above her in the usual proximity she was accustomed to, and she wondered if he had anything important to say. Anything at all, though he just stared – like he'd never seen her before, "I'm a bit pale, sorry," she said apologising with a laugh, and she was about to continue blabbering on, when a finger landed on her lips.

"Thank you," he said with his eyes twinkling, a smile playing at his lips, before he let his finger drop.

She swallowed, "You're welcome - I'll always help…anyway you've-," she stilled the second his hand dipped underneath her chin, lifting it up, so he could peer properly into her brown eyes.

Molly gasped yet again, feeling the hairs on her skin crawl out of sheer contact, while feeling terribly confused, since he didn't need to see her. She was after all the _last_ person he ever needed to see, and he came to her first. Her – of all people – she wasn't John, she wasn't Mrs Hudson and she wasn't Lestrade. She was just Molly, his pathologist, but he started to lean down - hovering above her lips.

Her brows were in her hair, lips parted in surprise, when his lips came in contact with featherlike precision.

It was soft playful nips at her lips, causing the corners of her mouth to turn upwards, as her eyes tried blinking away the tears that proposed to flee her eyes. Sherlock seemed aware of this fact, cupping her face in his hands, stroking the salty tears with his thumbs, as he gently continued to kiss her.

She was confusion, she was happiness, and she was everything at once – she could choose between any of the emotions.

_He_ was kissing _her._

It was her who brought him down more hungrily to her lips, feeling his insecurity, as she wrapped her hands around his neck, hands that quickly disappeared into his hair.

And all of a sudden they were entangled limbs, franticly attacking each other's mouths, while he lifted her up pushing her towards the locker. The pain she experienced in her back was nothing compared to the pleasure of having him between her thighs, of having him moan against her lips, of having him ripping up the buttons of her blouse, until he threw it onto the floor. Clothes disappeared in a hurry, his mouth sucking at the skin just below her ear, making her feel ticklish and flustered all at once.

She pulled him closer, her legs pressed against his now bare back, making her relish the feel of his skin - the taut muscles that worked themselves in a frenzy tugging her skirt upwards, until it was pressed above her waist, becoming just a flimsy fabric, and his mouth once again was on hers.

Her knickers were soon pushed aside, almost torn away, while she braced herself, steadying her back against the locker, taking in the darkened hues now in his eyes. He was pure driven animal, only small flickers of innocence left in his eyes, while he pulled at her erect nipple standing to attention amidst the coldness of the dressing room – and the flurry of hormones.

She almost laughed, though the laughter caught in her throat when he pushed his cock inside her warmth. Her laugh became a whimper, while he grabbed at her hips pushing her down on his length, and she moved with him – feeling him fill her up. His breath was ragged, as he bit down on her neck causing her to wrap her legs even more tightly around him.

It became apparent with the beads of perspiration, that they would have to move, and he carried her with ease, so that they were sat upon the bench, with him underneath her. She pushed down – harder – deeper – faster – crying out his name, while his mouth ravished her neck.

He grabbed at her hips so she followed his slow torturous rhythm, lifting her up from his hardness, so she was almost off him, until he brought her down again firmly – repeating the action several times, until it became yet again rough erratic movements.

She screamed out his name in the end, with his guttural, "Molly," following her exclamation. Warmth spread all over her, her body limp, as she leaned her head on his shoulder, feeling him soften inside of her.

"Welcome back," she said after a minute filled with the pair of them just breathing, giving thanks that no one was there, but of course he would know. He'd always know, for after all, like he repeated several times that night – she did count, and she would _always_ count.


End file.
